carving a poem

cold metal in calloused hands,
chip after chip
after chip

slowly
the lines take form
with hard-wrought detail,
as letters go flying
into your arms
like tiny missiles:
alliterations, imperfect rhymes,
trickling blood,
sore grey matter

And always
you have to go
with the flow of the text,
balancing your will
with that of the block...
lest the whole thing crack
and fall into a mess
of useless hack-work

cold metal in hand
the chips go flying
in a battle of creation,
vision after vision
after revision

slowly, hopefully,
gloriously, maybe,
a poem takes form